“Oh.” A pang of disappointment took me off guard. “Then by all means, you must look throughRomeo and Julietbefore you leave."
Mr. Prologue took a seat beside me and reverently ran his hand over the book’s cover. “What a find. They say this is the abridged version of the play, whereas the second edition is the full version.”
“How fascinating. Someday I hope to know everything about Shakespeare’s works.”
“I feel the same.”
I smiled. “I have always wanted a First Folio, rare as they may be, but now I find I can be quite content with a quarto.” One story compared to a whole collection was still a prize.
His dark-brown eyes rose to meet mine. “Dare I tell you that I could only part with this because I have recently acquired a First Folio myself?”
I gasped, gripping the arm of the iron bench. “Where did you find it?”
“A baron’s private collection. He was sorry to part with it, but he needed the money.”
I leaned back in my seat, fanning myself with my gloved hand. “I feel as if I am meeting Prinny himself, knowing that I am sitting next to the owner of such a treasure. Not to mention my conscience is quite at ease in keeping this book from you. After you have perused my copy, I will gladly take it home.”
He chuckled as he opened my copy and studied the pages with a reverence I quite appreciated. “I find great pleasure in the feel of an old book,” he said.
“Yes, it’s like holding a piece of history.”
“A window to the past,” he added.
We stared at each other for a moment—two souls who understood books and possibly each other. Did he not look familiar to me in this moment? As if we had met in another life? I forced myself to look away. My gaze wandered across the street, settling on none other than Mr. Clodwick in his black stovepipe hat and perpetual black jacket, crossing from the barber to his carriage.
Drat! I was going to miss him!
I jolted to the edge of the bench, my back ramrod straight.
“What is it?” Mr. Prologue asked.
Clodwick stepped into his carriage and disappeared from my view. I sank back against the bench in defeat. “Nothing. Just the man I hope to marry.” My cheeks heated. Did I really say that out loud?
Mr. Prologue’s brow furrowed, marring his rather perfect forehead. “Unrequited love? Or is it thwarted love like a tragic literary couple we are both familiar with?” He lifted the book in his hands for reference.
I couldn’t very well explain my situation to a stranger, even if we had learned a few paragraphs of information about each other. “Neither. The situation is far too complicated to categorize so simply.”
He flipped through the pages ofRomeo and Julietbefore handing me the coveted book. “You have my deepest sympathies. I hope everything works out for the best.”
“Thank you.” I reached for it, my hand unintentionally resting on his. The same strange surge of warmth passed up my arm again, this time curling around my heart, sending it off rhythm.
Mr. Prologue pulled away, completely oblivious to my strange reaction to his touch, and stood. “Good day, Miss Page.”
Tabitha came to my side just as Mr. Prologue turned away. “Who was that?”
“I couldn’t say.” My eyes trailed after the gentleman, and my curiosity piqued. Suddenly a few paragraphs on a man like that did not seem nearly enough. I craved to know at least a chapter. Never had I met someone before who was so similar to myself—as familiar as if we’d met a thousand times in a book we both adored. But someone as sophisticated and handsome as he was would never be interested in an unremarkable woman who preferred scribbling away the nights over attending parties and balls.
I shook my head, hoping to dislodge my wayward thoughts. I was to be the master of my fate now, and I had already set my sights on Mr.Clodwick. I did not require the rare First Folio life . . . with some stranger who showed an interest in Shakespeare. Regardless of whether it was one far more dynamic, a connection of like minds, and had the smallest hope for true love . . .
I nearly snorted. That sort of life was surely impossible to acquire.
But neither did I deserve to be absolutely miserable with the likes of Mr. Ashworth. Twelve years was not enough to forget howhefelt about my writing. With a man of my own choosing, such as steady, amiable Mr. Clodwick, I could be content with first quarto life—one with respect, security, and domestic tranquility—and most of all, a life where I could write to my heart’s content.
Under no condition would I end up like Harriet Gardner.
My best friend had been a talented musician, but her husband insisted that a woman was meant to be seen and not heard. Harriet was a shell of who she used to be. I hardly knew her. Poor darling was a sorry victim of an arranged marriage.
History told me that a union with Mr. Ashworth would be quite the same. He had no respect for my writing, and it was everything to me—my one talent. I would never lose myself in a marriage to the wrong man.
